The Drifting Gloom (Maddy Wimsey Book 2)

by J. R. Rain

  I keep watch on the house over the next few minutes, but can’t make sense of the dirt piles in the yard, which appear far too big for graves. Maybe the guy’s planning to open a gas station or something. Eventually, the crunch of tires comes up behind us. Three marked patrol cars queue up at our rear bumper. We exchange nods of greeting via mirrors.

  “Thanks for coming,” says Rick into the radio.

  “I was led to believe there would be free beer,” replies a woman.

  Laughter comes back over the radio. I grin, too. Heh. Trust a cop to crack a joke at a moment like this.

  “What are we expecting?” asks a man.

  Rick clicks the button on the mic. “The suspect’s name is Harold Allen Roy, age thirty-nine. As far as we can tell, he lives alone. We don’t expect anyone else to be inside, but we don’t know for sure. The suspect is armed with at least a .45 cal handgun, and he’s got a few rifles registered in his name.”

  “Harold Allen Roy,” says another female officer. “Sounds like a serial killer.”

  “Yup.” Rick sighs. “You should be a detective.”

  I grab the mic to verify all are wearing protective vests when my cell phone rings with the official tone.

  “Wimsey,” I say, after answering.

  “If you’re all done monopolizing the radio…” Greer mutters something inaudible. “Search warrants for the house are good to go. You’ve got a green light. Bring him in.”

  The warrant, of course, will need to be recorded and signed on paper, but that can be done after the fact. For now, it’s called a telephonic warrant, and it’s just as good.

  I give Rick ‘the nod.’

  “Okay, everyone. Game-face time,” he says into the radio.

  He drives the rest of the way around the curve in the dirt road and comes to a stop about thirty feet from the front of the house. One patrol car fans off to our right, two go left. The eight of us step out of our cars more or less at the same time.

  Before I can even shove my door closed, a loud boom comes from the house along with a muzzle flash from the bedroom window.

  We all hit the deck, taking cover behind doors and pulling weapons. One of the officers fires into the house twice, but checks himself and stops. I aim at the window, but it’s empty.

  A male voice off to the left howls in agony.

  “Officer down,” yells a woman.

  “Shots fired!” yells Rick into the radio mic. “Officer down. Need medical transport ASAP. Requesting SWAT assistance at our location.”

  I focus over my gunsights at the empty window as Rick relays what happened to dispatch.

  “Will!” yells a female cop. “Dammit, Pitt, hang on.”

  “I’m good…” rasps a man, his voice high-pitched from pain and wheezy.

  “Damn right you’re gonna be fine,” says the woman.

  The other officers stay hunkered down behind their doors, a veritable firing squad aiming at the house. If only we knew for a fact that no innocents were inside. That may well be the case, but we don’t know. Roy would have to be an idiot to show himself in a window at this point; he wouldn’t last two seconds.

  My finger tightens on the trigger, but not to the point of letting off a round. Bits and pieces of that video, Mrs. Sullivan being told to choose which one of her children she has to watch die a horrible death right in front of her…

  Yeah. I’d be totally fine with this shithead eating a bullet even if taking a life goes against everything I believe in. Goddess forgive me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Too Quiet

  Tuesday Late Afternoon – July 25, 2017

  Two of the patrol officers suggest rushing the door.

  “Hold the line,” yells Rick. “SWAT’s incoming.”

  “Watch the windows,” shouts the sergeant. “You see a rifle, you’re clear to engage. Do not break cover, Rivera, keep pressure on that wound!”

  “You got this, Pitt,” says Rivera. “Bus is on the way.”

  Pitt mutters something unintelligible.

  Minutes pass with no sign of activity in the house. Sweat coats my hands, making it hard to keep clutching my M&P 40. I’m simultaneously angry and relieved that Roy hasn’t shown himself again. The constant reassurances Rivera mutters to Officer Pitt simmers over the other cops muttering and whispering, building fury and resentment at not turning that whole house into Swiss cheese.

  Distant sirens grow louder.

  “Hear that, Pitt?” asks Rivera. “Medics are almost here.”

  A man gurgles in response. I glance left, but can’t see much except for a hand sticking out past a tire. Come on… come on…

  I duck down behind the door and glance to the rear. An ambulance follows a heavy SWAT team truck up the dirt road.

  “Cover,” shouts the sergeant.

  Everyone, including Rick and I, aim again at the house. No one makes a sound.

  The armored SWAT truck does a slow pass, tires crunching over dirt, pulling around in front of the patrol cars as a shield between the house and the injured officer. The ambulance rolls in hot like a helicopter in a Vietnam War movie, skidding to a stop not far from the line of patrol cars.

  I break cover and hoof it around behind the cars, over to the deploying SWAT unit. A late-thirties guy with a prematurely-grey brush cut has sergeant stripes on his sleeves, so I go for him. Six other officers form up around the truck, their M-16s leveled off at the house.

  “What’s the situation?” asks the SWAT commander, Sgt. Campo, according to his nametag.

  Rick jogs up beside me.

  “One active shooter with a high-powered rifle,” I say. “Possible unknown occupants, but no confirmation either way. Suspect fired one shot from the bedroom window as soon as we got out of the car, and struck Officer Pitt. There’s been no sign of him since. He’s in there somewhere.”

  Deep whudding overhead precedes a police helicopter cruising into view.

  “It’s too damn quiet. He’s planning something,” says Rick.

  “One shot and disappears?” asks Campo. “Sounds like he’s probably got the place rigged.”

  “Not sure…” I glance at the building. “He had a cleaning service coming in, except for one room. She didn’t report anything unusual except the smell of bleach.”

  “Why would that be unusual for a cleaning service?” asks Campo.

  “This guy’s a suspected serial killer. Uses a toxic mixture of bleach and ammonia as a murder weapon.”

  Campo and a few of the other SWAT guys cringe. “Right.”

  “Got nothing inside,” says a guy from the roof of the SWAT truck. “All windows clear. Nothing moving.”

  “All right, detectives.” Campo nods. “My team will take it from here. Best if you head around back and watch the yard in case he tries to make a run for it.”

  Medics load Pitt into the ambulance. Rivera starts to walk back to the line, but she’s a wreck. The patrol sergeant grabs her arm and spins her around before giving her a nudge at the ambulance and a nod.

  Campo takes the SWAT team, except for their sniper atop the truck, and leads them around the back of the vehicle. They quick-time it in a single-file line up to the wall, flanking the front door.

  I look at the patrol officers and say, “Let’s head around to the back. Baker, with me and Santiago. Sergeant Kim, you and Trent go left?”

  The cops all nod.

  With Rick and Officer Baker behind me, I sprint across the grass past the Ford Ranger, heading for the fence on the right side of the house. The SWAT guys take position by the front door. I stop at the fence and peek over the top. The yard’s empty, except for the dirt mounds. Most are huge, but only about knee-high. The bigger ones are about the same footprint as a bus, long rectangles. What the hell is this guy doing?

  I aim around at nothingness for a few seconds, then vault over the chain link and hit the ground running, heading for the corner to get eyes on the back of the house. A loud crack comes from the front door as the SWAT
guys break it in. Three strides from the corner of the house, my foot hits the ground―and goes straight through it.

  Raising my arms to shield my face, I let out a startled shriek as the earth swallows me whole. The next thing I know, I’m sprawled on the floor of an underground chamber with dirt falling in on my head. My left foot and right knee throb, and trying to breathe makes me choke on dust.

  “Wims!” shouts Rick above me.

  Coughing, I wave my left hand at the air, keeping my weapon pointed at the blinding cloud of brown. Sunlight shines in from a hole about ten feet over my head, but I can’t see the sky for all the swirling silt.

  “I’m o―” I cough. “Kay.”

  A few seconds pass before the dust settles enough for me to perceive my surroundings. I’ve landed inside a long, rectangular space with a metal floor and walls. Wooden boards cover the upper quarter of the walls on both sides. Bolt marks mar the ground at regular intervals. A few floor-to-ceiling metal poles are the only things in here other than me. Straight over my head, the broken remains of an old plastic skylight offer a square view at blue sky and Rick’s wide-eyed face. Dirt walls about three feet tall form a channel up to ground level from the skylight. The sides keep caving in, pouring soil on me, making me squint. To the rear, the remnants of a dashboard and steering wheel tell me that I’m in a bus that had all its seats removed.

  Ahead, a doorway leads out.

  I glance back and forth from the door to the skylight twice, before staring up at Rick.

  “He does have stuff buried here… but it’s not bodies.”

  Amazingly, they’re buses, and they form, I think, a labyrinth under his backyard.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Trapped

  Tuesday Late Afternoon – July 25, 2017

  I crouch low and aim at the only doorway out. No wonder we didn’t see Roy in the house… he’s been hiding down here. All that digging―yeah, he’s probably got a network of tunnels. Great… he’s a doomsday prepper, too.

  A distant, deep thump shakes the ground under me and knocks dust off the walls.

  Shouting erupts from my little radio as well as the radios on Rick and Officer Baker overhead. The rapid chattering tells me something exploded in the house, catching the SWAT guys off guard. Campo’s yelling something about gas.

  Shit. I gotta get out of here. I peer up at Rick. There’s no way I can reach that hole without something to stand on. At least, not without exposing myself to danger from the doorway.

  “Gonna find a way outta here,” I say, and start forward.

  “Hang on,” yells Rick. “We’ll get a rope and pull you up.”

  “Too vulnerable,” I say.

  “Then stay here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “You’re too vulnerable, too, Santiago. Go find cover,” I say. Admittedly, the staying put isn’t a bad idea, but I need to know if there are other lives at stake. Stupid as it may be, I head for the door, if only to take look.

  Ten feet from the door, a wisp of my hair wraps around one of the steel poles and snags.

  I hiss at the jolt of pain in my scalp, then glance sideways at my hair lassoed around the post like Indiana Jones’ whip. Whoa. The hair’s never been that obvious before.

  “Okay… I get it. Don’t go out the door,” I whisper.

  My hair falls away from the pole.

  A human figure appears in the doorway at the far end of another bus-length section. Something tells me to duck, so I fling myself to the side, diving against the wall not a full second before the report of a rifle goes off. My shoulder hits the wall and I fall to the floor as a bullet pings and zips around the old bus. After a rapid series of clanks, a loud thump comes from my chest along with a blow like a stiff punch. A deformed rifle bullet rolls away from my Kevlar.

  “Oof,” I grunt.

  “Mads!” shouts Rick.

  “Fuckin’ cops!” shouts a voice I recognize all too well. Roy sounds exactly like the man on the video torturing Mr. Carlisle, furious at the ex-Marine’s refusal to be intimidated.

  He fires again.

  With a bullet zinging around who-knows-where, I huddle down tight against what would’ve been the rear of the bus, next to the emergency door. Fortunately, this shot doesn’t bounce into me.

  “You’re gonna die, bitch!” shouts Roy, firing again. “Come on, show yourself! Stupid shit-for-brains cop!”

  He fires a third time. The bullet hits the far end of the bus with a single clank, no ricochet. It had to punch through and go into dirt. Roy lets off a barrage of swear words.

  I stick my M&P 40 around the door way and fire a couple shots blind, hoping to make him dive for cover. “It’s over, Roy! Put the gun down and give up. There’s no reason anyone needs to get hurt.”

  Amazingly, Rick’s legs enter the hole in the ceiling behind me, along with a heavy downpour of soil. Who joins a gunfight from above? My partner. My stupid, brave partner.

  “No!” I shout. “Rick, stay topside! He’s firing!”

  I shoot twice more to keep Roy ducking.

  Rick growls in anger, but stops coming in. He also doesn’t pull himself up. “Dammit, Wims. I can’t leave you down there alone!”

  “Gas! Gas!” shouts an unfamiliar man on the radio. “I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.”

  “Masks on now,” bellows Campo.

  “Suspects underground,” says Rick into the radio. “Wimsey fell through a weak spot. She’s down there. Gunshots exchanged.”

  “Locked room is clear,” says another SWAT guy.

  “Yo, Sarge,” says another man, his voice muffled. “Got a door down in the basement. Looks like a tunnel.”

  “Hang on, Wims,” yells Rick. “SWAT found the entrance.”

  “I can hear the radio, you know,” I say, deadpan.

  I glance out of the corner of my eye at my hair. “Safe to peek around the corner?” I ask it.

  When it doesn’t flop over my eyes, I decide to take a chance and look.

  The space past the door at the back of the buried bus looks like the inside of semi-trailer. A haze of gun smoke hangs in the air, but not so much I can’t see the other side, which is wide open. No sign of Roy.

  Chuckling echoes from down the hallway.

  Oh, shit… he wants SWAT to come down here. He’s not a doomsday prepper at all―he built this whole place for the inevitable showdown with law enforcement that he figured would eventually happen. This dude might want to die in a blaze of glory and take as many of us with him as he can.

  I lean away from the door, my back flat to the bus wall. “No, don’t let them come down. Rick? You hear me? He’s gonna gas the whole place.”

  Roy’s grunt emanates from the hallway outside, muffled by a mask. Seconds later, a wine bottle flies into the bus and smashes on the floor, leaving a large puddle of clear liquid, which rapidly exudes visible fumes. I take a huge breath and hold it.

  Metal clicks from the corridor, sounding a whole lot like an assault rifle magazine being jammed home. He’s got a fresh mag, and he’s right outside.

  “Rick! Get up now!” I shout.

  His legs vanish so fast, I’m sure Officer Baker pulled him back. Three rapid gunshots follow, and bullets go whizzing around the bus. One nails the wall inches to the left of my face. Another hits me in the stomach after ricocheting around a few times. Peyton’s knee strike hurt more, but without the Kevlar, that would’ve been a different story.

  I look up at the broken skylight, too high for me to reach and directly in his line of fire. My heartbeat starts to pound in my head from holding my breath. I give the doorway the side-eye. Great. I’m stuck in a confined space with a hole I can’t reach and a door that’ll guarantee I get shot. Kevlar’s great, but 5.56 at short range will go straight through it. Oh, yeah, and even if I could reach the hole, I’d get shot to death trying to climb out.

  The cloud of fumes stings my eyes; a scratch of ammonia reaches up my nostrils and claws at my throat. Fumes rising from the
spill thicken, swirling in eddies that rise toward the open skylight. Smoke emanates from the rubberized coating over the bus floor.

  Shit.

  My choice is poison or bullets.

  Except the only thing I don’t have is time to think of what to do… and that cloud of fumes is getting frighteningly large.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Air

  Tuesday Late Afternoon – July 25, 2017

  If I poke my head into the doorway, Roy’s going to shoot it.

  So, I stick my M&P 40 around the corner. Wait. Does whatever gas this is blow up if exposed to sparks? Hydrazine is rocket fuel. Double shit. If I shoot, I might blow myself to cinders.

  “Wims?” yells Rick, a tone of worry in his voice.

  I’m starting to get dizzy from not breathing; the burn in my eyes worsens. Tears run like I’m crying. My lungs feel like they’re about to burst open. Any second now, my body’s going to force me to take a giant effing gulp of death. Hold it! I yell in my mind. Goddess give me strength. Roy laughs and fires again.

  The ping-ping-ping of the ricochet barely reaches my awareness over the hammering of my pulse in my head. My eyes start to close against my wishes. I can’t let myself be blind, but the stinging is getting so damn bad.

  My body demands air now, but what it’s getting is deadly vapor. It’s all I can do to double over in a ball away from the door and pull my shirt over my face.

  “Police!” bellows a distant voice I don’t recognize. “On the ground now! Do not move!”

  An instant later, a fusillade of gunfire erupts in a deafening barrage. I grunt and shove myself upright, whipping around the doorway, gun raised. I can barely see due to the tears rolling down my cheeks like waterfalls. Snot keeps flowing out of my face. I rush forward, through the choking cloud, gagging and gasping. I stumble out into the buried semi-trailer, where Roy isn’t.